


All The King's Horses

by MegsWrites



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Unresolved Conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegsWrites/pseuds/MegsWrites
Summary: Its been two and a half years since Phillip spoke to either of his parents. Somedays he's glad, some he's not, most he's too busy living his life to think about it much. But always, in the back of his mind, he thought they'd have more time. He was wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,  
> Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;  
> All the king's horses and all the king's men  
> Couldn't put Humpty together again.  
> ~Mother Goose

They’ve been on the road for nearly six months when the news catches up to them. 

After two successful years dockside, P.T. spins such an alluring tale of life on the road he manages to talk the entire company into traveling across half the country. Not only that, but somehow he convinces Phillip to oversee the damn thing. Its a good life Phillip decides. He’s always liked traveling, and if the accommodations are less plush these days, the company is infinitely better.

They’ve just wrapped up the first show of the day and by Phillip’s calculations he has exactly half an hour to sit and not move before he has to be back out front greeting the next wave of potential ticket buyers. Not even bothering to peel off his sweat dampened coat he drops into a chair and leans his head back with a groan. They’re finishing a three week run in Cincinnati and Phillip is looking forward to the end of tonight's show and the two days of down time before their train to St. Louis departs. He and Anne have been so busy they’ve barely had time to say goodnight before tumbling exhausted into bed each night so he’s planning on making up for lost time. They may not exactly live in the lap of luxury, but he has managed to book them a room at the Palace Hotel complete with late night dinner reservation. It doesn't matter that they've been married for a year and a half, he still gets butterflies every time she walks into a room. He's determined that the hectic pace of this crazy life they lead wont keep him from reminding her how important she is, how proud he is to call her his wife. 

As if on cue the flap to their tent swings up and Anne enters, her face flushed with the rush of another good show, her wig slightly askew. 

“Hey.” She says, dropping a light kiss on his forehead and a stack of letters on the little folding table next to him. “The post finally came.” They’re rarely in the same place for longer than a couple of weeks which makes correspondence tricky at best. He finds it rather liberating. 

“Mmmmm.” Maybe he can just do the second show from here. 

“Phillip.” Anne’s voice is warm, teasing, and he’s rallying the energy to reach out and tug her into his lap when she says his name again in quite a different tone. He looks up, sudden ice churning in his veins, and sees her holding a slim white envelope in her hands. Without a word she offers it to him and even before his fingers touch the paper he recognizes his mother’s flowing script. He opens it with unsteady hands. 

Its not a long letter, barely half a page, and the date at the top marks it written 8 weeks past. He reads it through three times. 

“My father.” He says, much more calmly than he feels. “He’s ill, it came on suddenly but mother says they’re confident he’ll recover.” 

“Phillip.” Anne says softly and he can’t bear her tenderness yet so he presses on.

“I don’t understand why she wrote me, I haven’t heard a word from them since—“

“Sweetheart.” Her hand lands on his arm and he realizes she’s crouched in front of him. There are tears in her eyes. “This was on the bottom of the stack. I’m sorry, I didn’t see.”

Its a telegram. 

It could be about anything, tour dates, rental bookings, train tickets. It isn’t. He knows it isn’t even as he carefully opens the envelope and pulls out the thin sheet inside, such a contrast to the crisp thick paper of his mother loves. He knows before he lets his gaze run over the typed print. He knows. Its still like being stabbed in the gut.

His father is dead.

Anne’s hands flutter, unsure where to land, her fingers skimming over his wrists, the tops of his knees, his hands and their white knuckled grip.

“What do you need?” She asks, her voice thick with emotion. “What do you need?” He shakes his head, what answer could he give her?

“I have to go…the funeral is…if I leave tonight I can make it.” He stands with no clear purpose and she rises with him, close but not hovering. “Between the load out time and the travel days I should be able to be back for the first show in St. Louis.” He’s turning in small circles, hands reaching for things but never quite making contact. “If I’m delayed we can…we can…”

Outside the organ grinders begin to strike up a tune, the pre shows are beginning. Letting out a shaky breath he scoops up the black top hat from the foot of the bed. 

“I’ll make the arrangements after the show. I’m sorry. I was going to take you somewhere nice for dinner.” His head is spinning, nothing feels real. Suddenly, she is there, filling up the space in front of him with warmth, steadying him, taking his face in her hands.

“You don’t have to." She says, “We can cover, Constantine’s been learning your part in the new routine.” He shakes his head, then leans into her touch.

“There’s no time to make the substitutions. Its alright. I can do it, it’ll help I think.” He realizes its true as he says the words. The show, familiar and solid and real. That’s the space he needs to figure out what to do next. 

“OK.” She says, leaning forward and giving him a quick kiss, then lingers, their foreheads pressed together. “After we’ll make plans. I’m coming with you.” 

“Anne.” He breaths, wanting so say no but not finding the strength to do so. The best he can manage is to hedge. “You don’t have too. I can do this on my own.”

“I know you can.” She says, kissing him again then stepping back. “But you don’t have to. I’ll go make sure everything’s in place. Take a minute. Join us when you’re ready.” 

And then she’s gone. He looks down and realizes he’s still clutching the wadded slip of telegram in his hand. With deliberate care he places the crumpled paper on the table and smooths it out as best he can. Then he folds it and slides it into the envelope with his mother’s letter. A hot spike of grief or guilt or anger, he’s not sure which, lances through his chest and he has to bow his head against it for a moment. Three long breaths and he straightens, setting the hat on his head with grim determination and then ducking out into the fading sunset. 

As P.T. Barnum would say, the show must go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, insomnia strikes again (I've read this through a bunch, but its three in the morning so I'm sure there are a world of typos.) and I've been living on a steady diet of TGS soundtrack and tumblr tags so I suppose this was bound to happen. I just have a lot of feelings about these crazy kids. (also, I've devoured every single fic in the Anne/Phillip tag and I need MOAR don't every stop!)


	2. Chapter 2

They make the 11:48 on the New York Central Line by the skin of their teeth. 

The hour between the end of the show and their departure is a frantic rush of packing and hurried conversations about logistics and timetables, a blur of movement with very little time for thinking. Anne supposes that’s for the best, for while she hasn’t had another chance to really talk to Phillip, every time she checks in with him with a word or a touch he’s been steady. She watches him going over the show’s travel itinerary with Lettie and she is struck again at the strength of the man she married. He’s always been good at keeping the show moving despite the odds, never once has he been derelict in his duty to them and she can see the insistence in his face that this will be no different. If she didn’t know better, if she hadn’t watched the color bleed out of his entire being just three hours earlier she might have forgotten where it is exactly they are heading. 

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she realizes she’s kind of stalled in the middle of the tent. She looks over to see W.D. studying her closely. He’s never been one for words her brother, there were times in their life where the two of them could pass a whole day with fewer than ten words spoken between them. But what he lacks in loquaciousness he makes up in keen perception. She’s never been able to lie to him or hide her feelings; no matter how many others she manages to fool. He doesn’t say much now, just drops a heavy silk shawl around her shoulders and then pulls her in for a hug. Pressing her cheek to the solid warmth of his shoulder she can feel the tears that have been hanging at the back of her throat beginning to rattling the bars of the cage she’s stuffed them into. She lets out a long breath and W.D. squeezes her once before letting go. 

“You ready?” He asks, and she knows he doesn’t just mean packed. Is she ready? She has no idea what they’re about to walk into. Sometimes it’s tempting to pretend she can forget all the reasons the world will always hate her and Phillip. Surrounded by the love and acceptance of her family, bolstered by the gloss of the word ‘entertainer’ or even ‘oddity’ and the limited protection the bubble of the Circus affords it is easier to believe in Phillip’s dogged insistence that the two of them singlehandedly can change the world. And while she’s been around long enough to know it’s more complicated than that, she made her choice a long time ago. No power on this earth will move her from her husband’s side no matter what stands in their way, but she has to admit, heading back into the arms of Phillip’s old life feels a lot like walking into a den of lions. 

“Yeah.” She says, knowing he will understand the rest. He rests a hand briefly on the side of her face and smiles. 

“I’m proud of you.” The cage door rattles harder and she has to blink back moister at the corners of her eyes. 

“Stop being nice to me.” She laughs, giving him a gentle shove. He laughs and tugs her into a one armed hug before heading for the entrance.

“I’ll go get the horses ready.” He says and disappears. Behind her Deng hurries up and holds out a little wicker hamper with a thermos strapped to the side. Its heavier than Anne expects and she fumbles briefly before getting a good hold on the handle. 

“This should keep you fed for the next month or so.” Deng says with a good-natured eye roll. Their cook, Anton, is nothing if not efficient, and his gruff exterior hides a gentle heart that would go to the ends of the earth to make sure their company was well fed and comfortable. 

“Thank him for me, I don’t think I’ll have a chance before we leave.” Deng nods then gives Anne a quick hug before hurrying off, the show still needs to be packed away for the night. 

Running through her mental checklist Anne discovers it neatly checked off. She looks up, searching for Phillip and finds him deep in conversation with a handful of the roustabouts. Making her way over to them she quietly slips her hand into his and he squeezes it warmly without looking at her. Once the business is covered the crew foreman, a huge hulking man with flaming red hair named Josiah, offers Phillip a hand.

“Don’t you worry about a thing boss. We got it covered.” Phillip returns the handshake. 

“Thank you.” He says simply and Josiah and his team, with nods in her direction, take their leave. Phillip lets out a long breath and reaches up to rub his eyes with one hand. Then he turns to her and smiles tiredly. 

“Hi.” He says softly and she leans in to kiss him. 

“Hi yourself. Are you ready? W.D.’s pulling the wagon around.” Before he can answer Lettie comes hurrying up. 

“Why on earth are you still here?” She says, her smile belying any sharpness in her words. “Trains wait for no man you know. Constantine and W.D. have your bags loaded and ready to go, you should get moving.” Phillip nods and starts to move toward the wagon but before he can take more than a step Lettie is pulling him into a hug so tight Anne thinks she can hear his bones creaking. When they pull apart Lettie’s eyes are bright with unshed tears. 

“Take care of yourself Carlyle.” She says brusquely, “Come back to us soon.” Phillip just nods, his throat working against all the words he cannot say. To give him a moment Anne moves forward and hugs Lettie.

“Thanks.” She says in the other woman’s ear. Lettie takes Anne’s face in her hands and says in a low voice,  
“You can do this. You are exactly what that boy needs. Just love him.” Then she’s ushering them out into the night where they climb up into the wagon. Their friends gather in the torch light to wave them off and she tangles her fingers through Phillips again. 

They make it to the station just in time, managing to get their bags checked and settling into their seats as the train pulls away in a great cloud of steam and ash. The late hour means the car is mostly empty and Anne is grateful for the respite, there will be plenty of sideways looks and muttered comments over the coming days and she's not sorry to have some space to themselves for now. Phillip leans back and closes his eyes, all his manic energy of the last few hours finally spent. 

"Are you hungry?" She asks, thinking of Anton's overfilled hamper tucked beneath their feet, but Phillip just shakes his head and reaches for her without opening his eyes. Shifting so she can tuck her feet under her she curls into his side and he pulls her close. They stay that way long enough that she hopes maybe he's fallen asleep but then he says quietly,

"Thank you, for coming. I don't know what will happen when we get there but...it's probably not going to be pleasant." She tips her head up to look at him, his eyes are still closed, the dim glow of the nearby lamp softening the hard lines of his face.

"Hey." She says, trying to keep her voice light because there is a brittleness to his tone she hasn't heard in a long time. "You ran into a burning building for me once...its the least I can do." Its an old joke between them now, and usually it makes him huff in fond exasperation but tonight his only answer is to pull her a little closer. Heart aching she reaches up to touch his cheek. 

"Phillip." She says, "Look at me." She waits until he's blinked the light from his eyes and meets her gaze. "You and me remember? Nobody else gets a say. There's nowhere else I want to be." He does smile at her then, some of the tension easing from his expression.

She doesn’t know what’s waiting for them in New York, its true. She also knows it doesn’t matter. Whatever its, they’ll face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Just a little bit more build up before the real event kicks in I guess. Also, does any one have a good resource that gives all the circus performer's names? I've been searching and not finding much outside the core cast. I don't want to mis-name anyone, but I also don't want to steal a name someone else here is using because I mistake it for canon. :)
> 
> ALSO, what is historical accuracy? I sure don't know. I'm trying to stay within the realm of the plausible, but if you see anything glaring its because I'm lazy and didn't look it up, feel free to point it out. :)


	3. Chapter 3

It takes them 20 hours to reach New York and by the time they arrive Phillip is so tired he can hardly see straight. 

He cranes his stiff neck to glance down at where Anne is dozing against his shoulder and then returns his gaze to the approaching lights of the city. Shifting in his seat carefully so he doesn’t disturb his wife, he pulls his watch out of his pocket and flips it open. Almost 8pm. If they’re lucky they’ll be at the station by 8:30 and then they’ll have to find a place to stay. He’d been hoping to see his mother tonight but that may not be practical. He has no idea what he’s going to say to her, he doesn’t even know how to feel about the prospect. 

For the moment, aided by lack of sleep and the fact that Anne had only been able to get half a cheese sandwich and some tea into him over the course of the trip, he’s settled into a dull muffled sort of ache. Its manageable as long as he doesn’t think to hard or dig too deep. Little eddies of thought keep trying to entangle him; memories and old hurts, all the words that have passed between his father and himself, all the words that never did. He keeps finding himself wondering where is father is at that exact moment. Still stretched out on the imposing canopied bed he shared with Phillip’s mother for as long as Phillip can remember? But no, the embalming has already taken place and he must now laid in state in the grand parlor

When Phillip was 9 years old his Grandmother Carlyle died. She was 83 and Phillip was so terrified of her that even in death he refused to go into the room where her coffin was on display. When his father demanded he pay his respects he’d cried which had earned him boxed ears. He can still remember how dark the room had felt, draped in heavy black crepe, all the mirrors covered, the clocks stopped. He’d been sure the ceiling was collapsing in on them. It felt like falling into the realm of some terrible dark creature from one of his Nan’s bedtime stories. He’d had nightmares for a year after. 

Shaking off the memory with effort he snaps the watch closed in his hands and reaches over to gently nudge Anne awake. She blinks owlishly at him for a moment before stretching out her cramped limbs with a low groan. He know’s its hard for her to sit still for so long, her body was made to be always in motion, climbing and swinging and flying, stillness sits poorly on her. They’d attempted a few strolls up and down the carnage to stretch out some of the kinks, but the closer to New York they’d gotten the more disapproving eyes followed their every move and after a particularly snide comment purposefully stated loud enough for them to hear by a white-haired woman to her sallow daughter they’d given up and retreated to the safety of their seats. On another day he’d have pushed the issue, nothing makes his blood boil like the disrespect so often flung in his strong, beautiful wife’s direction and he’s not afraid to be vocal about it. Today though neither of them have the fortitude to fight back much so when Anne gently tugs him away he follows with nothing more but a dirty look. Yet another way he’s failed her he thinks bitterly before stuffing the thought down with all the other dark things churning deep in his gut. 

“Did you sleep?” Anne asks, reaching up to smooth down his travel tousled hair. 

“A bit.” He lies, knowing she wont believe him. There isn’t time to press the issue though because a long last they are pulling into the station. After a brief misunderstanding about their bags, he’s managed to misplace the claim ticket in the rush of their boarding, they are deposited on the station platform without much fanfare. They are making their way through the crowded lobby, headed for 42 Street and cab service, when a voice rings out through the noise. 

“Phillip! Anne!” He turns, but not in time to prepare for the small blond bullet that hurtles into his side, arms wrapping around him in an enthusiastic hug. Helen Barnum grins up at him, she’s a head taller than he remembers and every bit as full of life. 

“Hey peanut.” He says in bemused confusion, “What are you doing here?”

“We heard you were in the neighborhood.” Says a warm familiar voice, and Phillip looks up to find P.T. and Charity Barnum moving towards them. Caroline smiles shyly at the from behind her mother’s shoulder. P.T. claps a warm hand on his shoulder,

“We figured you could use a friendly face or two.” He says, then, without preamble he pulls Phillip into a hug. It is both relief and agony to be wrapped in such strong comfort and for a moment Phillip doesn’t know if he’s going to burst into tears (which he’d really REALLY rather not do) or not so he gently extracts himself from the embrace and smiles tiredly into his friend’s face. 

“Lettie sent us a telegram and told us when to expect you,” Charity says, giving Anne a hug and reached out to squeeze his arm. “We’re so sorry for your loss Phillip.” All he can do is nod.

“Come on.” P.T. says, taking the bags out of his hands and heading for the exit, “You look done in, let’s go home.”

“Home?” He echoes stupidly. 

“You didn’t think we were going to let you stay in some hotel did you? We have plenty of room for as long as you need it.” Charity says, linking her arm through Anne’s as Helen takes Phillips hand to tug him forward. Before either he or Anne can protest P.T. looks at them over his shoulder and says in a tone that brooks no argument, 

“You are family after all.” 

There doesn’t seem to be much to say to that so Phillip follows dutifully as Helen keeps up a steady stream of conversation telling him all the things they’ve missed over the last few months. Once they are all settled in the carriage and the rest of the luggage has been collected he finds himself sandwiched between Helen and his wife, the one full of lively chatter, the other quietly slipping her hand into his and trying not to fall asleep in front of their hosts. 

“So,” P.T. says as they pull away away from Grand Central Depot and head toward the Barnum’s townhouse, “How’s the troop? The numbers look good but we haven’t had much news from anyone.” Charity shoots her husband a look but Phillip just chuckles, grateful to have something to talk about that doesn’t require more than he can give. They spend the ride going over the more important details of the last 6 months. When they finally arrive at their destination he lets the Barnums exit first then climbs down himself, offering a hand to a yawning Anne. 

“Sorry.” She says, embarrassed, “That’s so rude.” Charity just smiles and pats her on the arm. 

“Not at all my dear, you must be exhausted, we’ll get some supper into you and then you can go sleep in a proper bed, it will do you wonders.” The older woman turns to usher them up the steps to the front door and Phillip finds himself hesitating. Feeling something amiss Anne turns back to him, questions in her eyes, 

“Phill? Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He says, even though its the furthest thing from the truth he can imagine. “I’m just…I think I’d better go see my mother, let her know I’m here. I wont be gone long.” Anne pulls away from Charity and comes back toward him. He meets her at the bottom step so he’s looking up into her face. 

“Sweetheart its so late,” She says, worry blooming across her face like a sickly rose. “You haven’t slept.” 

“I know,” he says, taking her hands. Her finger are cold and he absently begins to rub warmth back into them. “I won’t be long. I’ll sleep better knowing…there wasn’t time to send word, she wont be sure I’m coming.” She studies his face, her mouth is an unhappy twist.

“I could come with you.” 

“No.” He says more sharply than he means to. Behind Anne he sees P.T. frown. “You’re exhausted. I wont be long.” Its a refrain that’s wearing thin. He ends the conversation by leaning up to kiss her and then turning his back and walking away before she can talk him out of it. In truth the only thing he wants to do is collapse into bed, his wife in his arms, and not move for a week, but there is business that must be faced first and it is meant for him alone. If there is to be a reckoning he won’t have her caught in it any more than he must. 

He walks four blocks before flagging down a handsome cab and giving the driver his family address. Its a short journey, too short because the next thing he knows he’s standing at the foot of the grand stairs that lead to the large oak double doors of the estate and he has no earthly idea what to do next. Its too late to turn back however because his arrival has been heard and a footman he doesn’t recognize is opening the door, spilling the golden light from the gas lamps down the granite stairs. Squaring his tired shoulders Phillip climbs to the door and is about to announce himself when a voice comes from inside the hall.

“Master Phillip?” A tall greying man in smart livery stands just beyond the threshold and even his years of service can’t completely conceal the surprise in his face. Nodding at the footman Phillip steps inside, blinking a little against the light. 

“Hello Collins. Its been a while.” He says, extending a hand.

The head butler, the same man who used to reprimand Phillip for running in the halls but always picked him up after the inevitable fall that followed, shakes his offered hand warming and Phillip is profoundly grateful to him for it.  
“It has indeed sir.” Collins says, his eyes passing over Phillip with an appraising glint. “We had no word of your arrival, but I shall have a room readied at once and perhaps a late supper?”

“Thank you but that wont be necessary, my wife and I are staying elsewhere, I just wanted to let mother know I’ve arrived.”

“I see.” The older man says and Phillip can see the slight stiffening of his shoulders. It makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly. They stand there awkwardly for half a heartbeat and then Collins seems to rally.

“If you’ll follow me sir, I believe Lady Carlyle is in her drawing room.” He moves as if to lead Phillip through a house he’s never been in before. The pressure in Phillip’s chest draws tighter. 

“It’s alright Collins.” He says gently. “I know the way.” And without waiting for an answer he moves deeper into the house. Its quiet, as if the household were drawing its collective breath, readying for the upheaval the next day is sure to bring. He passes the closed doors the the grand parlor without a glance, staunchly ignoring the massive bouquets of white lilies flanking the doorway. His mother’s preferred sanctuary is up one floor, on the east side of the house overlooking the gardens. The door is half open when he reaches it, the room shrouded in semidarkness, lit only by the fire and a single oil lamp. By the dim light he can see his mother seated on an elegant couch, her head leaning tiredly on one hand, her eyes fixed on the fire. She looks like she’s aged 10 years rather than the two since he last saw her, He hesitates for a long moment and then raps lightly on the door with his knuckles. She starts, looking towards him with eyes that at first don’t comprehend what she is seeing and then fill with tears. 

“Phillip.” She breaths, climbing to her feet and reaching for him with outstretched arms. “Phillip.” He crosses to her and pulls her into his arms and she comes undone, her sobs vibrating through him like blows. He can’t feel relief or sorrow or even confusion at her unexpected reaction to his presence, only that same dull ache and dry burning eyes that seem to have taken up permanent residence. 

Once she’s calmed he sits her gently back on the sofa and crosses to the sideboard to pour her a drink. His hands hover over the cut crystal tumblers for a long moment and then he flips a second glass over and pours himself a double measure of the amber liquid before heading back to her. She takes the drink without comment, sipping deeply as he settles himself on the opposite end of the seats and downs his own drink in one swallow. It burns pleasantly, filling his empty belly with heat. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” She says shakily, setting her half full glass aside and looking at him with red rimmed eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, “By the time the telegram reached us there was no time to send word ahead. We caught the first train out.” If she catches his use of the plural she says nothing, just gazes at him like she’s forgotten what he looked like. 

“Mother,” He says, almost without meaning to, “What happened?” She sighs and looks back at the fire, as if she can see the events playing out there.

“It was very sudden. Doctor Roberts told us at first that it was just inflammation of the stomach, that rest and a new diet would improve the condition, and for a while he was right but then…I found your father in his study one night, he’d…” she hesitates on the words then presses on, “he’d been ill, there was blood everywhere, his desk, down his front, you know how much pride he put into his dress…” She trails off and Phillip closes his eyes against the image before standing to pour himself another drink. HIs mother doesn’t seem to notice his absence. 

“I knew then,” She says softly, “even though I didn’t want to believe it, I knew. That was three weeks ago. He declined very quickly and Sunday evening he…he…” She breaks off and reaches for her glass, draining the rest of liquor. He moves over and refills it without a word.

“I wrote you.” She says, looking at him as he settles back onto the sofa. “I thought you would want to know.” 

“Thank you” He says stiffly, its hard to be grateful for that letter. “We’ve been traveling, I didn’t get it until the same day the telegram arrived.” She nods.

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Yes.” He says simply. He isn’t here to fight, but he’s not here to apologize either. Not for that. He looks up from his glass to find her studying his hand where the firelight glints dully off his wedding ring. 

“I sent you an invitation.” He says, something ugly beginning to stir under the numb dullness of the whisky and his tired mind. His mother looks away. They sit in uncomfortable silence for several minutes and Phillip drains the remains of his drink then stands. 

“Its late.” He says, “I should go.” His mother climbs to her feet and there is something like desperation in her face. 

“You aren’t staying here?”

“No. Anne and I are staying with friends, we’ll be back tomorrow at whatever time you’d like us here to prepare for the funeral.” He watches her fingers flex by her side, that ugly thing in his chest coils a little tighter, ready to spring.

“The family is gather at 9 tomorrow morning.” Is all she says. He nods then steps forward to kiss her on the cheek. 

“Goodnight mother.” He says, “Try to get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’s halfway to the door when she calls after him.

“Phillip?” He turns. Her expression is hard to read against the firelight. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” He says. then leaves, closing the door softly behind him. 

He intends to go straight down the Collin’s office, ask if he can borrow the carriage for the ride back to Barnum’s but his feet carry him to the parlor door instead. He stands in the darkened hall, his heart thundering in his chest, the whisky in his gut souring into a ball of molten lead. He raises one hand, pressing it agains the smooth polished wood of the door, the smell of lilies is cloying, making it hard to breath. 

He should go in, pay his final respects to his father before the press of the crowd tomorrow, face in some small portion the enormity of what has happened. 

He can’t. 

With a breath that is half bitter laugh, half sob he pushes away from the door and practically runs from the house. He’s half way down the drive when he remembers the carriage. He can’t go back though, so he walks for nearly half an hour before he finds an unoccupied handsome to take him back to the Barnum’s. 

He is let in by a tired looking maid who shows him through the quiet house to the room where his wife is sleeping soundly in the middle of the most inviting bed he’s ever seen. She’s left his nightclothes neatly folded at the foot of the bed and soon he is crawling in beside her. As he settles in she turns, not fully waking, and wraps her arms around him. Pulling her as close as he dares Phillip buries his face in her hair and wishes desperately for sleep.

It comes at last and he is carried away into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by white wine and about a million playthroughs of BeLL's cover of Losing My Religion (Which you can check out here if you want a soundtrack to Phillip's inner torment https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhVF2H-ad-k) This was a rough one folks, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Thanks for sticking with it.


End file.
